“Maybe you should lean into that,” Georgia says. “Target people who prefer reading books that require you to have a dictionary on hand?”

She’s teasing me, but it’s not a bad idea. “Maybe I could host a literary salon where people can discuss books they’re reading?”

A banging sound distracts us: someone knocking on the glass door of the store. When I step out of the back room, a man is peering in the window. He waves, so I head to the door and open it a crack, trying not to let the AC escape (Strategy 1: Cut expenses).

“Hi there, we’re not open yet—”

“I need to return a book.” He’s the picture of impatience—crisp suit, shiny shoes, probably on his way to a Very Important Meeting—and I decide it’s easier to do the return than tell him to come back later. He’s not a regular customer, but if he has a good experience, maybe he’ll become one (Strategy 2: Sell more books).

I give him my most welcoming smile. “Of course. Come on in.”

He follows me to the register and plunks the book down. It’s the latest Oprah’s Book Club choice; I’ve sold dozens of copies.

“I’ll just need your receipt,” I say.

He frowns. “It was a gift.”

“I’m sorry, but we only accept returns or exchanges with receipts.” I point toward the printed sign next to my register.

“You have copies of the same book right there.” He nods at the display. “Can’t you refund me your current selling price?”

I smile and stick to my guns, repeating the policy.

He exhales in frustration. “Where’s your manager?”

“I’m the manager, actually.”

Cue the usual response: eyeing me suspiciously as the wheels turn in his mind. This small, young woman cannot have any sort of actual influence or authority. I am in fact thirty years old and of average height, but I was cursed with a baby face that makes me look at least five years younger—which is why I dress professionally and always wear my hair up.

“I mean the head manager,” he says. “Is he here?”

My smile freezes. “You’re looking at her.”

He huffs. “This is ridiculous. The book was—” He flips open the cover and points. “Twenty-nine ninety-nine! Plus tax! That’s an absurd amount of money for a book.”

My jaw tightens. The foil accents on the dust jacket, the deckled edges on the paper…it’s a freaking work of art! This man clearly has no appreciation for the craftsmanship that goes into creating a beautiful hardcover.

“Sir, I don’t set the prices, but—”

“I want a refund. Now. I don’t have time to argue with a checkout girl. Understand?”

The words are a swift kick to my chest. I’m proud of what I do; my job is so much more than running a register.